All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6

Forgive Me
By Herself

Sequel to Who Am I?; part of The Bittersweets Series


He blew into the kitchen, dropping the blanket he didn’t really need—it was raining—in time to stop Dawn shillyshallying with her lipgloss and missing the bus.

“Sis still asleep?”

“I heard her stomping around before I got up. Went back to bed, I guess.” Dawn thrust her make-up bag into her knapsack. “Did you two have a fight last night?”

“No, princess. Nothing of the sort. Go on, now.”

When she’d left, Spike prowled the kitchen for a few moments, listening to the gurgling of the fragile pipes, the low hum of the furnace, and the dripping gutters outside. He wouldn’t have said no to a cup of tea, but he didn’t want to make a pot and bring it up to Buffy. Not what he had in mind for her that morning. Not the way he wanted to start off.

Spike took the stairs two at a time.

Her eyes, staring at the thing he held, were the size of hubcaps.

“Spike. No way. All the no way that is, or was, or ever will be.”

He pretended to shrug. “I only thought, pet, as you’d been so keen with your little fingers the other night, you’d fancy a chance to—”

She shook her head, staring at it.

“I can’t believe you brought that into my house. Dawn didn’t see you with that, did she?”

He didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Spike. Put that away.”

He pushed it at her. “You put it away. That’s the idea.”

As soon as it was out of his hand and in hers, he threw off his leather, began shucking his clothes. “Don’t say you’re not interested in a bit of a knees up. I promise not to yank at your pretty white string.”

“You are foul.”

Then he brought his laughing mouth right up to ear. “C’mon Buffy. Give it me good.”

“Where did you get this? I mean—where’s it been?”

“Nowhere. Yet. What, you think it belonged to Dru?”

At the mention of this name, Buffy grimaced.

“Nah, I nicked it last night. Little spot of breaking and entering down the shops. Fresh out of the box, it is. Go on.”

“Ugh—“ She waved it off. “Anyway, it’s . . . I wouldn’t think you—“

“Could take it? I’ve took worse. Or better, you might say.”

“Oh God.”

“A lot you don’t know about me, pet.”

It wasn’t even quite as long as Angelus, the thing she was making such horrified, fascinated eyes at, although the thickness was about the same, and everybody knew that’s what really counted. Although it was shaped curiously like, might almost have been modeled off him, with that gentle curve, the only thing gentle about his old grand-sire; which is what had attracted Spike’s notice of it in the first place. Almost made him feel nostalgic, like. Wasn’t going to point that out, though.

Her going into him with her fingers the last time was an amazing mind-fuck too, had awakened patterns of lewdness in his head that shifted and bloomed like a kaleidoscope. It was a good twenty-five years since he’d given it up to another man, and he’d never done the like with a woman before at all. Which he also wasn’t going to tell her.

But he wanted to give it up to her.

He was kneeling up on her bed now, and she stood just out of arm’s reach. Naked like him, but hugging herself as if it was cold in here, which it wasn’t, and like she wasn’t ever going to take the three steps towards him that she would take. He wasn’t a vampire for nothing. He’d tangle her gaze with his and draw her here.

That was it. One foot in front of the other.

He caught her by the waist, turned her around. Seemingly stunned, she didn’t resist him. “There you go, pet. Needs to be snug, but you say if the straps’re too tight.”

She glanced down at herself, and then away, as a blush raced across her chest, up her neck to her cheeks. “Oh my God. I look—oh my God. This is disgusting.” She tried to push it off, then gasped.

“That’s right, love. Works both ways. Little knob inside there, gives back everything you’re gonna give me.” He grinned, grasped the rosy round end of it, pushed down, and watched her start and gasp again.

No way she wasn’t into it, the minx. Pretending to be shocked.

But he could practically sense the synapses in her brain firing as her imagination raced, smell her excitement building; it fed his, made his prick bob, his fangs tingle to come down. The rich sanguine scent she gave off, the sight of her with that apparatus springing from her curls, a golden androgyne goddess from the mists of time. Priapus as a girl. This was going to be good. He suspected, once she got the first taste, that she’d go at him like nobody other than his Grand-Sire ever had.

Spike rolled onto his stomach, looked at her over his shoulder.

“Come on, then. You know you want to stake me, Slayer.”

What, did he think this was funny? Strapping her into this fake prick and laughing at her while she blushed? Did he think this was a little game he was going to control? Had he forgotten whom he was dealing with?

Forgotten what she was dealing with?

“Um . . . Okay.”

She dragged him up, threw him across the room. Spike hit the door with a loud crack; she leapt after. One head-snapping blow toppled him to hands and knees on the rug. She dropped onto his back.

Did he really think she was just going to let him take this lying down?

Now she was interested.

New weapons always were interesting.

She aimed and struck, drove it home with one convulsive motion. Spike shouted, tried to shake her off. She grabbed his jaw, wrested his head up, and bit into his neck. He cried out again, and his thin dead blood flooded beneath her lips.

“Ahhh shit—Slayer—little lube is customary—“

“Make your own, Spike.”

She dug in, clinging to his arched back like an angry cat. This was incredible. Scratched the same itch that punching him did, but scratched it better, harder, meaner. Took her outside herself the way nothing had yet—this wasn’t even sex, it was sheer lunatic aggression, and oh God she needed it, it was perfect. She sawed her hips, he cried out at every thrust, short little protesting cries that called up all her hatred and rage, and now the thing felt like part of her, she imagined she could feel through it the inside shape of him, his guts rippling and clutching and screaming. There was no difference between the thing and her own clit, every move she made in him reverberated through her like the blow-back from a shotgun blast. This was filthy great! By time his channel got slicker—blood, or what sort of spume, she didn’t know or care—she’d already come three times, but each orgasm made her stronger, hotter. Sweat dripping, gluing her to the cool armature of his back, she made a pattern of bite marks on his shoulders that welled up with red like freakish lipstick kisses. Spike had his head down now, he was grunting and thrusting back at her, uhn, uhn, uhn. Fine, let him screw himself on the thing, but when he tried to hold them up on just one hand and grab his own prick with the other, she yanked his arm up and back until he howled.

Did he think she was just some girl? Or that she’d forgotten who he was? What they were to each other?

This was electric, his body, her body, resonating like struck gongs. It was hell and degradation, agony and torment. It was what they were both built for. It was his idea, so he must have wanted it!

She was a monster now, they were two monsters coupling like monsters and it was hideous and obscene and right.

She sunk her teeth into his nape, deep, deeper, filling her mouth with his salty blood, letting it run out at the corners and drip down his neck. Punishing him, beating on him with her fists, while he lowed and shook beneath her, her mount, her beast, her cunt, and it all just built and built and built, spiraling, dizzying, the uncontrollable shaking loathing fucking gnawing madness until—




—no more—


The pain, when he came back to himself, was everywhere, radiating out from the core of his body. He couldn’t exactly locate the pleasure, although there must have been some, because he was lying in his sticky drying cum on the rag rug. His neck and upper back from shoulder to shoulder were laid open, in ragged overlapping bites that oozed and stung as he tried to shift himself. Her hair and cheek were stuck to the wounds; her weight on him dead, and the thing still lodged inside, a cold merciless instrument, impaling him, stirring his guts to nausea.

“Buffy,” he whispered. “Buffy . . . love . . . come back to me.”

“Huhhhnn . . . .”

Fucking hell— Don’t move yet. Shit . . . slowly. Pull . . .it . . . out . . . slowly. Christ. There’ll be my innards with it.”

She was up on hands and knees now, still straddling him, but God what a relief to have her off! Have it out. His broken skin seethed. He wanted to roll over, but that wasn’t an option—not for a day or two. He could feel her looking at him, surveying her handiwork, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Then her little voice. “Jeez.” And she was up on her dainty feet; he felt the few steps she took on the board floor through his aching bones. Heard her fumbling with the straps, and then the thing hit the floor beside his head. Another few steps, and the door shutting, and he was alone with the ongoing sound of the rain.

He was shaking, weak as a kitten as he dragged himself out of her room. He supposed she was in the other bathroom off the witches’; didn’t question that as he ran the bath hot as he could stand. Almost yowled as he slid into the water and every hurt place on his body screamed.

The experiment not quite what he’d anticipated.

He’d wanted her to make free of him.

Wanted her to be wild. So they’d be wild together, for a little while.

Hadn’t expected that merely strapping her into the thing would cause the door to her inner blast furnace to fly open and the fires to come roaring out. Not prepared for that much hatred. Or the depth of her self-evisceration. Her horrible negation, of him, of herself, of the progress he’d thought they’d made. The distance between sexual pleasure and any kind of reconciliation between Buffy and life . . . between Buffy and him. Stupid. But then, he’d always been stupid about her. Imagining he could kill her like he’d killed the other slayers. There was no other like her. Then that he could love her like a man. And worst folly of all, that anything had really changed because she’d wept in his arms, and kissed him and called him William.

The water seeped into his cuts; they stung and throbbed, and he, stung, throbbed with grief at what he’d attempted and how he’d failed and been punished.

Went back to her room for his clothes. No sign of her, although he could still sense the signature of her menstrual blood in the air; she was somewhere in the house. The clock showed it was short of half ten. How had despair made such a complete invasion in just two hours? The same rainstorm still sluicing the windows, Dawn barely into her second class of the morning.

Gingerly, he knelt to retrieve his jeans. Bending over was too painful. She’d given him the rogering to end all rogerings. Behind him, the bedroom door opened. He glanced over his shoulder.

There: his queen, his tormentress, his conquistadora. Wet hair slicked back off her face, wrapped in a white towel. Cheeks and eyelids pale. Pale lips parted.

“You’re all torn.” She came up behind him, laid a finger without weight on his nape. Looking as if she had no idea it had anything to do with her. Pale concern in her eyes. “I can put some Vaseline on . . . it’ll feel better.”

“Bites’ll knit up on their own,” he said. His head so close to her belly, he could smell it again, the stirring sanguinary center of her, and hastened to rise.

She looked up at him. Something so blank in her face, it made him shudder.

“I’m sorry.”

Two empty words that floated in the air before her lips, connected to nothing.

He thought on this for a moment, wanted some anger to rise against it, but what else should he have expected of his dirty little scheme? Of her, in her condition? Stupid.

“No, pet. I suited you up, you played the game.”

Once more he reached for his trousers. Buffy threw herself across the bed. The towel fell open, and there were her pretty breasts, her belly and her sex. A woman again. Everything pink and fragrant from the bath. He eased himself into his jeans and turned his back on her to zip the fly.

When he glanced back, she’d parted her legs, and one indolent hand lay on the inner thigh.

He longed to walk out the door, leave and never come back, but found himself instead approaching her. Cripes, he was so predictable. No pride when a woman was in it. Well, the woman. Which was her now.

Looking right down at her uptilted impassive face. Unable to help himself, to refrain from dropping a kiss on each rosy clean nipple, on the small curve of her stomach, on the hand that rested still against her thigh, a mysterious gatekeeper, neither friend nor foe. The aroma of her pussy, the blood, went to his vanquished head like wine; he waited to be pushed away, and meanwhile looked his fill.

Her hand didn’t move. Her breath quickened, the thighs settling further back.

He spotted it then. “Where’s your little string, love?”

“Do what you wanted to do.”

Oh, it was terrible. His love and acceptance and worship were terrible to her. They must mean she was unfit for any man but a demon, because it took a demon to know her. He did thoroughly know her. Knew just how low and corrupt she truly was. She’d tried for years to deny what she was—pretended she could slay, fulfill her destiny, and still be a nice girl with a regular life.

It was a delusion.

She threw back her head, closed her eyes. Didn’t want to see the beast while she let him have his depraved way with her.

But she would feel it, everything he was about to do. Vamp out, grab her hips and latch on like a leech. Wasn’t this almost his final triumph? It lacked only the bite. The kill. But perhaps those would come in a few minutes, when he lost the semblance of control. He was, after all, what he was. Fitting that it be there, and not the neck—right for the Slayer who fucked the monsters she was meant to kill.

His hand stroked her leg, softly from the crux of her hip to the knee, up and back, up and back. Lulling, hypnotic. His head was pillowed on her other thigh. He sipped at her, tongue lapping far up inside, but so softly, as if she was made of some gauze that might tear at the least pressure.

Pointless, really, of him to be so delicate. Wasn’t she already torn?

And pointless for her, to think she’d get her quietus this way. He was too strong for her, still.

Each stroke of his hand up her leg laid her a little more open. His swallowing was a small steady sound, like a cat drinking milk. After a while, like a cat, he made a low steady sound in his throat. The sound seemed to sink her further into the pillows, further into her knowledge of herself, the demon’s unclean mistress. From stroking her leg, his hand moved to cup her mons, the thumb flicking softly across the wet clit that already stood up ready for it.

Why, she thought, resist this anymore?

She shivered under his fingers, his steadily lapping tongue.

Too late for anything else, after all.

The demon adored her.

Feed him.

Her breath caught, and the shiver beneath his moving thumb spread out through her to her toes and finger’s ends. He raised his head off her thigh for a moment, and their gazes locked across her recumbent body.

“This is heaven. My heaven.”

She stroked his damp hair through her fingers, and gently bent him back to his place. After all, why shouldn’t he have a brief taste of it too?

When he stopped at last, she felt as if roused from a stupor. Coming back from far far away to open her eyes and find him sitting cross-legged, looking at her in the grey nonlight of afternoon. Sound of rain still rattling in the gutters, and the hollow quiet of the house.

He’d kept his promise: not spilled a drop. No traces on his face, except the expression, sated, content. Not what she expected, still, despite the quiet with which he’d taken her: where was the gloating possessor? A tiny panicked voice deep inside her stilled mind cried out What have you done! Given over your blood, your blood!

But it was such a tiny voice. Buffy sat forward, touched the marks on his shoulders, open, red and angry.

“You are so patient with me.” Touched the places on his neck where she’d sunk in and not let go. “Why are you so patient, Spike?”

He shivered and turned from her gaze.

“Someone has to be.”

Her expression confused him; there was something of Dru’s madness in it, and something else that was too ancient to shine out of the eyes of a twenty-year old, even the slayer, that filled him with pity and revulsion.

She made a gesture at his waist. “Show . . . show yourself to me.”

He knelt up, undid his belt buckle, his fly. She stared, contemplative. Of course he was hard and aching.

This time, taking him into her mouth, she knew just how to please him. He’d never, in all his years, he thought, had a better seeing to. From this hollow-eyed creature who was half-way out of this life anyway, and the other half consumed with sadness. Who had raped him and somehow didn’t know it. Of course he forgave her. Forgave her with all his might.

Continued in Three

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